Page 23 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
Dad rolls his eyes. “Because I don’t run everything by you, Penn.”
The boy at my back grins wider.
I sit forward again, gripping the seat belt across my torso. “Any more surprises?”
“Just Ruiz,” Penn answers.
I stare at my father. There are a hundred things I want to blurt out, but I can’t seem to make my voice work. The words get trapped in my throat.
Sure enough, we stop at a very fucking familiar house, and Oliver Ruiz strolls out. He motions to my dad, who parks and hops out without a backward glance.
“Hey, Syd,” Penn says, his lips nearly on my ear. Again. “Did you know Ollie already has an NHL contract? That’s why he lives in this nice-as-shit house. He doesn’t host parties here or anything.”
“Oh, yeah?” I can’t turn and face him. He’s too close. All I can do is stare straight ahead while Dad and Oliver do God-knows-what.
“Do you know anything about hockey?” Penn asks.
“Not as much as you,” I reply.
He huffs. “You’re not very fun.”
“I’m a boring person.”
“Hmm… maybe. Are you hoping if you’re boring enough, people will stop thinking you’re a snitch? I don’t think it works like that.”
“I don’t really care what you think,” I whisper.
The doors on the driver’s side open, Dad hoisting himself back in and Oliver first tossing his hockey bag into the back, then seeming to float into the backseat. The truck felt like overkill when I first saw it, but now… well, if he’s carting around hockey boys and all their gear, it makes more sense.
“Anyone else?” I question.
Dad chuckles. “Nope.”
No one speaks on the way to the arena. I fidget, picking at my nails, until we park. Instead of climbing out, Dad cranes around to face his players.
“Go ahead inside,” he tells them.
They abide by his orders without question, and we watch them cross the lot and disappear through a set of double doors.
“Are your friends coming?” he asks me.
I check my phone. Dylan has volleyball practice, and Brandon is working. In short: no.
And Lettie hasn’t reached out either. She never returned my phone call.
“Okay. Come on.” He leads me inside, through the same doors Oliver and Penn entered, and I recognize enough to know we’re under the main part of the arena. This is where the players go, staff, everyone else. The hall splits, curving to the right and left.
“Stairs to get up to the seating are on the left,” he says. “But come with me this way.”
I follow him. I’m not really sure why, because he seems to think this problem has an easy solution. When we get to the locker room, I balk.
“They’re probably naked,” I hiss.
He chuckles. “Hang tight out here.”
He goes in. A minute later, he opens it back up and waves me through.
This is dumb. The last place I want to be is in the locker room of a team that all hates my guts, and yet…